


Live to Tell the Tale

by punahukka



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Fairy Tales, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-14
Updated: 2011-12-14
Packaged: 2017-10-27 08:38:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,330
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/293819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punahukka/pseuds/punahukka
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The difference between fairytales and stories, mixed with The Wizard of Oz and shower sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Live to Tell the Tale

**Author's Note:**

> Playing with Marvel's toys.

 

 _Good fairytales are black and white. Good stories show us the shades of grey. In this story about two hearts the only black and white is on the chess board set up in the twilight zone between them. If it was a fairytale, it could start like this:_

In the beginning there was a prince. He was the prettiest thing you ever saw, with his eyes bluer than the sky, lips redder than the blood in his veins and skin whiter than the snow. The only love in his royal family was the one between him and his ugly step-sister, her skin a darker shade of blue than his eyes.

When they stepped from their castle to the road leading to the great wide world, they came to realize that despite all the people around them they were always alone. “You and me against the world, then.”

Until they found others. Other princes and princesses just like them, and a handsome stranger the first sweet prince rescued from raging waters one night.

It was a clear, beautiful day when the stranger in question found his new friend in the gardens surrounding the castle, pushing a shovel to the ground beside a splendid rose bush. “What are you doing?” he asked, puzzled.  
“I’m digging my own grave”, the sweet prince said merrily. “Because you, my dear friend, will be the end of me. But there will be plenty of room for the both of us.”

 _The story could introduce itself like this:_

Once upon a time, not too long ago, when there were World Wars, extraordinary young minds, quests for revenge, quests for a better world and twists and turns of Fate itself, that Charles Xavier met Erik Lehnsherr, and nothing, absolutely fundamentally nothing, was ever going to be the same again.

 _We already know THE story, or at least some shades of it. Yet there are so many versions to tell._

Charles and Erik. Erik and Charles.  
The joy, the pain, the tension.  
The power, the fear, the hope.  
The companionship, the friendship, the ship in the horizon without a name.  
It is there, undeniably; it’s a decision to be made; to see or not to see.

 _Because when we are talking about such beautiful, amazing creatures, who’s to say which version is the correct one? Who could claim it their right to tell us what really happened and what didn’t? Sometimes you need to go with the obvious; sometimes you need to listen to the rumours that aren’t represented out loud._

Charles is falling, down down down into those eyes not as blue as his own but astonishing nonetheless. It’s a picnic for two, set up by the old tool shed on Xavier Hall’s grounds. There’s no blanket, no food and only one water-bottle Erik’s long fingers are playing with, but for Charles it’s the best picnic he’s ever had. They’ve been training all afternoon with the kids, now discussing about the outcome.  
It’s the first time they kiss (and it’s about damn time). It’s the first time Erik’s long fingers slide down down down, curiously, and what he can read from Charles’ eyes bluer than the sky is a yes, yes, yes, because it has come to the point of to kiss or to kill, and kissing is what Charles does better. He doesn’t ruin the moment by thinking which one Erik finds more satisfying.  
 _  
It wouldn’t be much of a story, though, if it was so easy._

Those brilliant minds; they’ll never agree.  
But they are equals.  
There’s the beauty. There’s the tragedy.  
 _  
What makes it one of the most heart-aching stories you’ll ever know is that there’s so little time. So ridiculously little time._

The concept of ultimate sacrifices flickers through his brain, lazily, as he turns the tap and lets the warm water wash over his body, soothing, cleaning and caressing.  
He’s aware of the presence long before the physical manifestation enters the small bathroom. Gloriously naked, skin dripping sweat from his late-night run, thoughts nothing but want, Erik steps in the shower with him, pressing his built-to-kill body against him, cock already half-hard above the curve of his buttocks. Charles leans back, and his blissful sigh is rudely cut off by a splash of water on his face. He wonders if he’ll ever get enough of Erik’s hand, arms, so strong, which the other man wraps around his waist.  
For a long while, they just stand there. It scares them to think how perfect a moment it is.  
Then Charles just has to turn around, break the spell, there’s no other option, and it’s his secret little pleasure to know that he’s the only person to drive Erik against the wall and live to tell the tale. In awe, he feasts on Erik’s face with his eyes and mouth as he curves his fingers around his now very full-grown erection. The metal-bender brings a much bigger, rougher hand to imitate the motions on the telepath’s length.  
Ground doesn’t shake, constellations don’t reorganize, Christmas doesn’t come early this year. But two hearts beat to the same rhythm, and it’s the most terrifying force of nature there is.

 _The saying about being out of sight and out of mind must apply to this story, because when they share these moments, it’s about them and not the world outside, about their dedications to each other and not to the world or other people. It’s a cruel place, this world, so is it any wonder we’re telling stories?_

“Penny for your thoughts.”  
It’s a dangerous game, throwing those pennies into a wishing well as vast as Charles Xavier’s mind. The kind of game Erik Lehnsherr would play. One of his fingers travels slowly along Charles’ spine from north to south.  
“The Wicked Witch of the West,” Charles replies, blinking, undoubtedly honest. The kids are camping around the TV in one of the living rooms downstairs, glued to The Wizard of Oz so intensely it doesn’t require the telepath any further effort to keep up with the film.  
“Her mutation?”  
“Not really. I’m wondering if that wickedness was actually a misunderstanding. After all, Dorothy killed her sister.”  
The finger starts its way back up. It’s a ridiculous game, trying to get someone to suck your cock with popular culture references. Not the kind of game Erik Lehnsherr would play (with anyone else). “You would be that Cowardly Lion,” he mutters, not in the mood for conversations about justifications.  
The sweetness of the obvious mocking makes Charles raise an eyebrow and turn his full attention to Erik. “Oh, thank you, my friend. I suppose that makes you the Tin Woodman?”  
“I suppose it does.”

 _Stories get entangled with each other, and all of their stories will never be told. And believe me; it’s a weird feeling when everyone else knows how your story SHOULD have gone._

There’s no need for jealousy, but it’s there.  
“Raven?”  
“Moira?”  
Sometimes Charles wishes it was a game of chess they’re living. In chess it’s simple; in chess it’s all about the queen.

 _We already know how the story ends, and how it’s only a beginning for series of other stories. If it was a fairytale, it could end like this:_

Dear sweet prince.

Every apple is poisoned. Every glass shoe is shattered and makes your feet bleed. Every grandmother is a wolf. Every frog bites when you lean into a kiss.

Every time you give your voice to a witch who can make you look like a human you get fucked, and HE doesn’t love you and marries someone else, and all you have left to do is to decide whether to take his life or your own.  
And we all already know which one it will be, ‘cause baby, this is LOVE we’re talking about.

 _But it’s not a fairytale. No-one dies. No-one lives forever. It will go on as a story of two hearts that only beat to the shades of grey._


End file.
